


Push

by illwick



Series: Unwind [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom!Sherlock, Comeplay, Dom!John, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Toys, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 02:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10687482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock and John discover the joys of having a new toy--multiple times.  (This is exactly what it sounds like: several rounds of smutty porn.)





	Push

**Author's Note:**

> So this is now officially a series! Although each part of "Unwind" can be read as a stand-alone, their are some mentions of previous sexual encounters in here that would make more sense if you've read the other installments. And after all, if you're here for the smutty porn--why would you NOT want to read more, mildly plot-relevant but equally smutty porn?! It's the perfect excuse.

Sherlock Holmes is not a shy man. To be shy would mean having the wherewithal to notice that there was something to be shy _about,_ which would involve having a vague grasp of societal norms and social niceties, which is something that over time has been made abundantly clear to him that he does not.

Yet when it comes to selecting an anal plug, Sherlock finds himself feeling quite uncertain and just this side of timid. Normally he'd boldly stroll into the first Camden sex shop he laid eyes on and demand the finest product in their selection, but something about this feels achingly personal in a way that's new and strange and slightly off-putting. He suddenly finds that he doesn't really wish to divest his interest in this particular object to whatever random tattooed hipster happens to have the misfortune of manning the register at whichever Camden shop he'd have strolled into; this desire of his is _private._

He's not ashamed, it's certainly not that. If he'd been put off by random people hypothesizing (with varying degrees of discretion) about what he did or did not put up his arse, he'd have been forced to become a recluse years ago, destined for a life of solitude. But that gossip didn't really bother him. 

Instead, the real crux of it was that he wanted this to just be _for him and John._ Something secret, a knowledge that just the two of them could share, a source of coy glances and shy smiles and innuendo laced with meaning that only the two of them would discern. This would be just for them.

So Sherlock does his research. He visits multiple sites and reads up on the various products available and makes a spreadsheet, documenting each item's stats (who knew there could be so many variables for something so simple? And how the hell was he to know what size he wanted? Did he want it to stimulate his prostate? And should it vibrate? Wasn't that what a vibrator was for? Why did it all have to be so bloody _confusing?)._ In the end, he reviews the three-page document and selects the one that he believes will best suit his needs. He proceeds to purchase it, even going so far as to actually use his own credit card, as opposed to the one he'd knicked off Mycroft eight months ago and that he uses every time he and John need to stock up on lube.

The package arrives unceremoniously in an unremarkable parcel wrapped in unobjectionable brown paper. John tosses it onto Sherlock's lap without a second thought, clearly completely oblivious to its contents. Sherlock grins slyly to himself, nearly quivering with anticipation.

Unfortunately, it's another two full weeks after that before they have a decent case--one worthy of this kind of celebration at its conclusion. But once the jewel thief has been apprehended (following a most exhilarating chase through the Hampton Court Maze), Sherlock can tell that he and John are on the same page--even in the darkness of the backseat of the taxi on their way to Baker Street, Sherlock knows that John's pupils are dilated with desire, and he's staring at Sherlock like he's something to be _devoured._

Upon arriving at the flat, Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time and all but trips over his own feet once he wrangles the door open and scampers down the hallway to the bedroom.

"Oy! Where the hell do you think you're going?" John's using his Captain Voice. Sherlock knows _exactly_ what that means--he's about to pay dearly for this transgression. As quickly as he can, he grabs the parcel from where he'd hidden it in his sock drawer, then dashes back down the hallway, holding it in front of him like a peace offering. John, still in Captain mode, looks unamused.

"I... I wanted to give you this." Sherlock feels flushed and breathless.

John glances down at the parcel suspiciously, but takes it from Sherlock's outreached hand. Slowly, he unwraps it, then opens the box inside. He freezes for a moment, eyes blinking rapidly as confusion turns to comprehension.

"Is this... what I think it is?"

"If you think it's an anal plug, then you're bang on."

"I... wow. Okay, Sherlock. We should probably talk about this first."

"But we _did_ talk about it, John!"

John cocks his head in confusion. "What?"

"A few weeks ago! After we'd been unwinding and we'd played that most delightful game of Cluedo, then we'd had some lovely morning-after sex, and then I mentioned that I'd been considering getting an anal plug, and you said you were, and I quote, 'very interested' and said I'd made your brain go offline, and then we took a shower and then went and got dumplings." He has to fight the urge to say, _So there,_ but he manages to keep things mature.

John nods slowly. "Fair point, we did have that conversation."

"So I bought this."

"Yes. I... admire the initiative. But I think that this is something that we should negotiate, and you know the rules about negotiation."

Sherlock heaves an exasperated sigh. Since John had started doing diligent research on _power dynamics,_ he'd established a list of ground rules that he and Sherlock were to follow when they were going to negotiate something new to integrate into their sessions. And the first rule was: all negotiation was to take place at a time when they were both unaroused and the situation was not sexually charged or infused with adrenaline.

So, essentially the opposite of their current situation.

Sherlock tries not to sound whiney. "But... I mean, this is such a small thing, John. Literally. Also figuratively. Really, inconsequential in the scheme of it. Minor. Surely we don't need to have a full-on negotiation just to--"

"Sherlock." John's gaze is hard and his tone is level. His Captain Voice is back. Sherlock knows better than to argue--especially if he wants John to dominate him tonight (which oh _God,_ he _does,_ so badly he can practically _taste_ it...).

Sherlock drops his gaze to the floor in an indication of submission. "Right, John. Sorry, John."

"That's better."

The silence stretches between them. Sherlock hesitates, but finally inquires. "So... do we still get to unwind tonight? Without the plug?"

John grins, a devilish look in his eye. "If you think I'm going to let you derail my plans for this evening, you've got another thing coming. Strip. Then get on your hands and knees. No talking."

Of course John (clever, perfect John) doesn't disappoint. He fucks Sherlock hard and fast right there on the sitting room floor (giving him the most _delicious_ rugburn on his palms and knees, the sensation alone causing Sherock to come completely untouched before John finishes inside him in brutal, ruthless strokes). Afterwards, John takes him to the kitchen and makes him kneel, then leaves him handcuffed to the table while John showers and cooks dinner and summarily ignores Sherlock entirely as he quivers naked on the floor, the grit beneath his knees the only distraction from the sensation of John's come still trickling out of him. Then John has Sherlock suck him off under the table while he eats, and once he comes down Sherlock's throat, he somehow manages to cajole Sherlock into eating 12 whole bites of dinner himself. As a reward, Sherlock is allowed to stand and John jacks him off until he comes all over the kitchen table before being sent off with instructions to shower and go to sleep. Sherlock's post-case slumber is deep and dreamless, sated and utterly content. John is very, very good to him.

Despite this, Sherlock is eager to try out the toy, and he spends a better part of the next day concocting an elaborate plan to ambush John the moment he arrives home from the surgery. Of course, the best-laid plans are wont to go awry, so inevitably Rosie comes down with a raging ear infection that requires two rounds of antibiotics, and her incessant wailing results in no sleep for anyone in the entire building for six days straight (even Mrs. H mutters something about investing in better earplugs when Sherlock passes her on his way out the door to Bart's, the one guaranteed refuge he has in all of this madness). Even John, with his endless supply of patience, seems strung-out and bedraggled by the time the inflammation wears down and Rosie deigns to sleep again. 

By that point, both John and Sherlock are so sleep deprived and frustrated that they're constantly at each others' throats, Sherlock fed up with the non-stop disruption (and, if he's completely honest with himself, annoyed that he's gotten ZERO attention from John for the duration of Rosie's illness, despite his best and most flamboyant efforts). John announces he's taking Rosie to visit his parents in the countryside before he and Sherlock kill each other (well, he makes a thinly-veiled excuse about owing his mother a visit, but Sherlock is the world's leading consulting detective; he knows bullshit when he hears it), and Sherlock can't bring himself to argue.

So John and Rosie depart for the countryside and Sherlock stays in London to sulk and wallow and finish three different experiments he'd been putting off, and then begrudgingly admit that perhaps it wasn't a terrible idea for John to have given him a break and to text him and tell him so and then for John to call him and laugh with him and reassure him that he and Rosie will be home tomorrow, stop pouting, and Sherlock has to laugh too, but he still doesn't sleep all that well that night.

John returns the next evening, trundling up the stairs with his telltale gait impeded by the metric ton of luggage that was apparently required to travel with a baby. Sherlock feigns total absorption in the Caprice he's playing on his violin whilst gazing out the window, lest John implore him for help. His concerns turn out to be unfounded, however, and he's soon pleased to feel John's arms wrapping around his waist, a soft kiss planted at the base of his neck.

"Hello, gorgeous." John's breath feels warm and familiar against his skin, and Sherlock can't help but smile as he turns to greet him.

They kiss, chaste and fond, before breaking away, Sherlock glancing around in confusion. "Where's Rosie?"

"Who?" John replies in mock bewilderment.

"Rosie? That blasted parasite you insist on bringing with you everywhere but who coos and smiles and gurgles until we're all utterly bent to her will?"

"Oh! Her! She's staying with Mrs. Hudson tonight. I told Mrs. H that you and I needed a bit of alone time, and she acquiesced. Well, I have to do her hoovering for the next three weeks, but it seemed like a fair trade."

"Oh." A seeping warmth is spreading through Sherlock when he imagines what John might have in mind for the evening. John grins at him as he lets the implication sink in. "What, um... what exactly did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking carry-out and a movie," John replies with a shrug. "Something low-key."

"Oh. Oh, alright," Sherlock does his best to disguise the disappointment in his voice. No sex, then--or if there was, it would be the nice, loving, vanilla kind that John preferred after he'd been away, with plenty of eye contact and kissing and absolutely no rugburn or bondage of any kind. Which, Sherlock supposes, would be perfectly nice considering their current state of carnal drought.

"Although," John continues, "I was also thinking that first we might have a chat about that present you got me."

Sherlock's eyes snap to John's, and the electricity between them feels palpable.

_"Oh._ Yes. Yes, that would be... good. Good. Now? Did you want to chat now?" Sherlock feels like his mouth is functioning on a completely different OS than his brain, which has spiraled off into a land of a thousand flickering fantasies, weaving themselves into a tangled web around his consciousness.

"Sure," John replies, with an air of nonchalance that completely _does not compute_ to Sherlock's lust-addled brain. John makes his way over to his chair and plops down, looking up at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock remains rooted to the spot, jerking into motion only after John makes a vague gesture in the direction of Sherlock's chair. "Care to join me?"

Sherlock somehow finds his way to his chair and sits down.

John takes a deep breath, and begins.

Sherlock always lets John lead these conversations. John is the one who does all of the research about _power dynamics,_ and Sherlock is happy to keep it that way. He prefers to let John take the wheel and steer in this element of their lives, to let himself relax in the knowledge that John is in control, and that John will take care of him--take care of them both.

"So. You bought me a plug. Am I correct in the assumption that you want _me_ to use it on _you?"_

"Of course." It takes every ounce of Sherlock's willpower not to roll his eyes. Why the hell would John think Sherlock would want to use it on him? God, the _ignorance..._

"Don't give me that attitude, Sherlock. The whole reason we have these conversations is to avoid misunderstandings that might lead to a really humiliating situation for one or both of us. Need I remind you about the drill sergeant incident again?"

"No. No, I recall that quite clearly, thank you. Let's continue."

"Good, okay. So, you bought the plug for me to use on you. Why?"

"Because I've seen the way you look at me."

John cocks his head to the side, clearly not quite understanding.

Sherlock heaves an exasperated sigh, resigned to spelling it all out. "Because I see the way your body responds when you're _'checking me over for tearing'_ after we fuck. Your breath hitches, your pupils dilate, your heart rate elevates fractionally, even if you've just orgasmed. Something about seeing your come in me triggers a very _possessive_ response in you. Not unusual, I suppose-- a primal impulse, most likely, something Neanderthal still buried deep in your genetic code, staking your claim on my body. Same reason you like leaving hickeys all over my neck, or biting my shoulders when you fuck me from behind."

"Jesus, Sherlock." John's face has turned bright red, and Sherlock can see beads of perspiration forming around his hairline. He's clearly flushed with a toxic combination of embarrassment and extreme arousal.

Sherlock feigns innocence. "What? I was under the impression we were going to have a calm, adult conversation about this."

"Well, it's hard to keep things professional when your damn voice makes everything you say sound like you're reading passages out of 50 bloody Shades of Grey."

"I can't help how I sound, John, this is just the way my voice is." Sherlock's tone is admittedly bratty. He's goading John on.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes briefly, heaving a withering sigh.

"Alright. So that said: you bought the plug for me to use on you because you deduced that the act of... um, keeping my come inside you would turn me on, yes?"

"Correct."

"And does that thought turn _you_ on, my arousal aside?"

Sherlock pauses a moment to think it over. "Yes, I believe I'm aroused by the concept even outside the context of your interest. I like it when you come inside me multiple times during our sessions. Especially when you do it enough that you don't have to prep me in between rounds."

John adjusts himself slightly, attempting to be nonchalant, but Sherlock can tell he's getting hard as hell, and Sherlock has no desire to change the course of things.

"Okay. Okay, good. So... what are your limits, do you think? Have you considered it?" John implores.

"Limits? For the plug? Seems to me there's only one use for it, and I'm pretty sure I already signed off on that."

John smiles patiently, but he remains in Doctor mode. "True, there is only one way to use it, but the context in which it's used can change. For example, some people use plugs for extended foreplay or interplay, meaning the plug can be worn in situations that aren't inherently sexual--as in, not part of a sexual encounter."

Sherlock shakes his head in bewilderment, utterly lost. He has no idea what any of that means.

"For instance, I could prep you and put the plug in one morning, and make you wear it all day while I was at work. You'd have to leave it in even if you went over to the lab, or out to the shops, or took a meeting at the Yard. Does that interest you?"

The scenario unfolds in Sherlock's mind. The idea of doing something so private and then being exposed to public situations, having to interact with his acquaintances, colleagues, clients under those circumstances--the thought alone makes him shudder, the concept is _hateful._

He shakes his head hard. "No. No, absolutely not. Wearing it in a non-sexual situation would be a hard limit for me."

"Alright, then. We'll only use it in sexual situations."

"And only here in the flat."

"Only here in the flat."

"Unless we're maybe on holiday or something."

"Okay, Sherlock, I think we could probably negotiate that in the moment if we were on holiday."

"Good."

John smiles back at him, a warm, reassuring smile. "So, tonight-- I'm not really up for _unwinding_ tonight, I hope that's alright." Sherlock nods. _Unwinding_ is the term they use for their sessions, the times when John takes control and dominates Sherlock, and Sherlock submits to him. They _unwind_ almost exclusively after cases, so Sherlock isn't surprised that John's not up for it tonight. "That said, I'd still like to experiment a bit with the plug. Would you be up for that?"

Sherlock feels a thrill of excitement run down his spine and straight to his cock. Suddenly, he's half-hard in his own trousers as well. "Yes."

"Excellent." John stands and extends his hand to Sherlock. "Bedroom?"

Sherlock grasps his hand and follows.

Sherlock's initial deductions about John's plans for the evening weren't entirely wrong. He does want to make love, and Sherlock is hard-pressed to complain; no matter how much he loves _unwinding_ with John, the way John takes him apart when they make love is something else entirely.

They make out like teenagers for what feels like ages, rolling around on the bed still fully-dressed, re-familiarizing themselves with each others' lips and hands and eyes. John is a bloody _fantastic_ kisser (not that Sherlock has many points of reference with which to compare him, but still), and Sherlock revels in the sensation of John's teeth and tongue performing their careful dance over his lips and down his neck and to that delicious spot just behind his ear that makes Sherlock giggle and twist and pull John ever closer. John's eyes sparkle with fondness each time he pulls away to run his fingers over Sherlock's jawline, to trace the lines of his cheekbones, to outline the cupid's bow of his mouth. It's a slow, graceful kind of worship, the kind of worship that makes Sherlock feel _cherished_ above all else. It's heady, intoxicating, and by the time John divests him of his clothing, Sherlock feels drunk on endorphins and is practically vibrating with need.

John preps him slowly, keeping Sherlock teetering on the brink of _please, God, more_ and _too much, God, too much._ He teases Sherlock's prostate _just so_ and strokes his shaft with just enough pressure to keep him relaxed and pliant and receptive as John scissors his fingers, increasing the stretch. Sherlock feels as though his insides have turned to molten lava and he's all but _swimming_ in lust, his vocalizations reduced to deep, throaty moans followed by high, desperate whimpers as John bends to tease the head of Sherlock's cock with his tongue, adding a third finger with a stretch and burn that barely registers to Sherlock's lust-addled brain.

By the time John pulls away and withdraws his fingers, Sherlock is _floating._ John is a vision, gazing down at Sherlock with a look in his eyes that makes Sherlock feel like the most prized possession in the world. John reaches for the lube again, but Sherlock grabs his wrist, lightning quick, and John looks back at him, startled.

"Wait. Want to... want to suck you first. Alright?" 

"God, yeah, okay." John crawls up so that he's kneeling next to Sherlock's head, and Sherlock turns to open his mouth, letting John press gently inside.

Sherlock suckles him in soft, slow pulls, letting himself revel in the way John's hard length lies so perfectly on his tongue. He's distantly aware that John has pressed his fingers back inside him again, keeping him open, but it's a vague afterthought compared to the heat of the cock in his mouth.

All too soon, John pulls away, breathing heavily. Sherlock whimpers at the loss.

"Christ. Sorry, too close. This is going to be over way too soon if you keep that up." 

Sherlock makes another sound of indignation. John bends down and kisses him deeply before pulling away again. "Not my fault your mouth is so goddamn sexy it should be a crime. Can't watch those lips of yours at work for too long before you drive me mad."

"Sorry. I'll work on ways to tone it down."

"Don't you dare."

With a grin, John shuffles back between Sherlock's legs and picks up the lube again, slicking himself. Sherlock doesn't protest this time; he simply grabs a pillow and pulls it beneath his lower back, spreads his legs, and waits.

John leans forward to hover over him and press their mouths together yet again. They kiss slowly, deeply, and it's only when Sherlock feels the head of John's cock pressing into him that he breaks away, eyes locking into John's as John slides slowly into him in one slick press.

Once John is seated, they stay like that for a moment, suspended in time. They're both breathing heavily, eyes boring into one another's as they revel in the sensation of being fully joined. Finally Sherlock gets his wits about him.

"John? You should move now."

And _oh,_ John does, in deep, undulating thrusts that make Sherlock feel like he's about to come apart at the seams. John's cock drags over his prostate in that slow, delicious way that ratchets up his arousal without threatening to make him come, and he moans with the sheer perfection of it. He reaches down to grab John's arse and pull him closer, deeper, willing him to take him entirely.

Above him, John is gazing down at him with a glazed expression on his face, lost in the sensations building up between them. Sherlock arches slightly and then pulls his legs up higher, giving John a deeper angle, and John issues a strangled cry of ecstasy as he presses forward.

All too soon, John is speaking to him, imploring him, pulling him back into reality. "Are you close, love? Please say you're close." Sherlock nods frantically. He's at that perfect balance where he's stimulated _just enough_ within that he can still hold back, but he knows with one touch to his cock, he'll be gone.

"Touch yourself. I want you to come for me. Please, Sherlock, want to see you come. Want to feel you come around me. Please."

Sherlock removes his hand from John's arse and wraps it around his own cock and begins to stroke. He howls at the sensation--it's _so good, too good, oh GOD,_ he's going to--

"Yes, that's it, so beautiful, so perfect for me Sherlock, _Christ,_ so tight, oh my God, you're brilliant, you're incredible, I'm coming, _Sherlock,_ I'm..."

And John is gone as well, the familiar sensation of his release pulsing into Sherlock as he continues to clench in the aftershocks of his own orgasm, riding out the waves of pleasure, lost in the moment as John falls apart above him.

He comes to with John's face burrowed in his neck, his weight heavy and damp on top of him.

"Mmrph. John. John?"

"Can't move." John mutters into his neck. "Think all my bones melted."

"Shove off, I can't breathe." Sherlock winds up to forcibly twist and push John off of him, but John suddenly pulls himself up onto his elbows, alleviating the pressure on Sherlock's chest.

"Wait! Wait, I have to... we need..." He fumbles for the nightstand drawer and grabs the plug after some frantic rummaging, then raises himself up slowly, carefully, still keeping his half-hardened cock inside Sherlock. "Hold still. I need to..."

Sherlock complies, watching with minor amusement as John struggles to locate the lube and slick up the plug without slipping out of Sherlock altogether. It's a far cry from graceful, and it takes all his willpower to not laugh at John's inexpert fumbling as he attempts to navigate the situation.

Finally, he pulls out, and Sherlock holds his legs open for John's inspection.

And there. _There._ There is the wild look in John's eyes that drives Sherlock's imagination into overdrive, the surfacing of the animalistic, possessive side of John that he works so hard to hide beneath his fuzzy jumpers and placid demeanor. _There_ is the look of the man who can bring the high and mighty Sherlock Holmes to his knees before him.

"Good. Good." John sounds utterly breathless as he runs his thumb around Sherlock's rim and presses lightly into him, collecting the little come that had escaped. Then he takes the plug and presses it gently inside.

Sherlock sighs softly. The plug was small and not at all deep; it wasn't designed for prostate stimulation, just for the stretch, so it's not altogether uncomfortable.

John tears his eyes away from where they were fixated on Sherlock's hole.

"Alright? How does it feel?"

Sherlock sits up slowly. It feels strange, a new sensation--not arousing, necessarily, but not unpleasant.

"Fine. It's not invasive."

"Okay. Let me know if it gets uncomfortable, or if you want to stop."

Sherlock smiles at him. Bless John and his incessant worrying. "I will. I'll let you know."

"Okay. So. Um. Shall we go rinse off? Then order some dinner? I was thinking Indian."

So they make their way to the shower and rinse off, Sherlock melting underneath John's firm hands as they soap his body clean. Then Sherlock puts on his best his silk pajama bottoms and his softest grey t-shirt before retiring to the sitting room to loll about checking his emails whilst John calls in their dinner order and then joins Sherlock on the sofa with his book, the two of them relaxing in companionable silence until the doorbell rings with the delivery. 

They make quick work of their saag paneer and dal and samosas, then John suggests turning on a movie and Sherlock acquiesces without question, even letting John pick the film. It's some utter drivel--something about space and an alien life form that's completely implausible and defies all the laws of science, but Sherlock keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on the screen and revels in the feeling of John's arm around him, pulling him close to his chest.

The film's been playing for about 56 (interminable) minutes when Sherlock senses a change in John's demeanor. His arm, which had previously been draped lackadaisically over Sherlock's shoulders, has begun to stiffen. His heart rate is increasing ever so slightly, and his breathing is growing shallower. Initially, Sherlock is perplexed; is John exhibiting signs of stress as a result of the preposterous events transpiring on screen? Sherlock had thought he was made of thicker stuff. 

But then John's thumb begins to trace slow, steady circles onto Sherlock's shoulder. The slightest brush. The lightest pressure. Suddenly, it all makes sense. John is _aroused._

Sherlock lets out a low hum of consent. Clearly needing no further incentive, John turns and presses a soft, sensual series of kisses up the side of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock sighs in approval and tips his head to the side, allowing John full access to every inch of sensitive skin.

John moans gently, helplessly, then latches on to a point mid-way up Sherlock's neck and sucks, _hard._ Sherlock gasps with the sudden blazing intensity of it; it will surely leave a mark, the thought of which causes Sherlock's cock to stir to life with due haste.

Distantly Sherlock is aware of the sensation of John's free hand snaking up his shirt to toy with his nipples while John continues his ministrations on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's train of thought is quickly derailing, all of his attention narrowing to the growing pool of warmth in his groin that's spreading rapidly with each passing moment. He moans and arches into John's touch, encouraging him to twist and flick his nipples with increased enthusiasm, still not ceasing his efforts to thoroughly debauch what seems to be the entirety of Sherlock's throat with his mouth.

Finally John detaches from his neck and breathes heavily in Sherlock's ear. "Can I have you again now? Please?"

"Already, John? So eager..."

"Christ, I can't think of anything else, I tried, I really did, but _God,_ Sherlock, _need you..."_

The imploring tone in John's voice makes every ounce of Sherlock's will to resist evaporate in a fraction of a second.

"Mmmm. Yes, fine, alright, if you must."

"Oh _God."_ With that, John is manhandling Sherlock onto his hands and knees, bent over so that his forearms rest against the arm of the sofa. No sooner has he assumed the position than John is yanking down his pajama bottoms and prying his cheeks apart. His breathing sounds eager, almost frantic, and he moans as he exposes the plug. Sherlock all but preens under the attention, arching his back invitingly and lowering his head to his forearms, exposing himself to the onslaught of John's advances.

Then John's fingers are on the plug, and Sherlock holds his breath for a moment, bracing himself for whatever comes next. He still can't quite tell if he enjoys the sensation, but hell, if it reduces John to this state every time, it will bloody be worth it.

John's fingers trace the rim of the plug experimentally. He's dragging in slow, deep breaths, clearly trying to calm himself, but he's doing a rather poor job--even Sherlock can tell that with his brain functioning on a less than optimal bandwidth. Finally John seems to give in to his baser instincts and grasps the base of the plug and slips it unceremoniously out.

Sherlock utters a quiet _"oh"_ at the sensation of open emptiness, but it's drowned out by John's wanton moan. 

"Christ, Sherlock. You're still... I can... Oh _God."_ And with that, John is pushing inside of him.

Sherlock cries out. He wasn't really expecting John to be so hasty about things--he was usually fastidious about prepping Sherlock (even when they were unwinding) unless Sherlock outright begged him to be a bit rougher, so John taking the initiative in this particular scenario takes Sherlock completely by surprise; his arms nearly slip off the edge of the sofa and he narrowly avoids faceplanting into the armrest.

Luckily, disaster is avoided and he manages to catch himself at the last second. Quickly, he re-adjusts the position of his hands and braces his arms against the full force of John's enthusiastic thrusting. Behind him, John issuing short, sharp cries that go straight to Sherlock's cock. He's not fully aroused yet, but witnessing John fall apart completely is doing wonders to get him there.

Suddenly, a bright spark of pain runs down his left shoulder. It takes him a moment to identify the source before he realizes that John has sunk his teeth in there, latching onto him tightly, holding him ruthlessly in place while he takes his pleasure. Sherlock cries out, more out of shock than actual discomfort, but John is undeterred. Seconds later, he can feel John come inside of him.

It feels like John rides out the waves of pleasure forever. Sherlock bears his weight as gracefully as possible, holding himself as upright as he can as he feels John reduced to a shivering dead weight behind him. After what seems like an eternity, John's teeth detach from Sherlock's shoulder, and he heaves a shuddering breath.

"Oh, God. Sherlock, you alright?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Good." John sounds shellshocked and completely out of it.

Sherlock begins to shift uncomfortably to unseat John, but John grabs him by the hips and stills him. "Wait, wait, hold on, we need..." 

There's some fumbling, and then the sensation of John slowly withdrawing, followed immediately by the throbbing pressure of the plug as John presses it back in. Then John's trailing light, reverent kisses along Sherlock's sacrum and onto his still-exposed cheeks, his breathing wet and uneven.

"Christ, Sherlock, that was incredible. Fantastic. You're amazing." 

Sherlock hums his assent and lets his head drop down onto his forearms once more. He's shaking slightly, too, more from the exertion of keeping himself propped up than anything else.

"Come here." He feels John's arms wrap around him and turn him over so that he's lying face-up, head resting on the armrest, staring up at an utterly ravaged-looking John Watson. John leans down and kisses him quickly, then without further ado, he strips off Sherlock's pajama bottoms completely, presses his legs apart, and kneels to swallow Sherlock to the root.

He sucks Sherlock off with a reverent grace that makes Sherlock's toes tingle and his eyes roll back in his head. By the time he's coming with a shout down John's throat, all the discomfort of the plug has been replaced with utter bliss, his blood singing in his veins as John uses his clever mouth to bring him over the brink of ecstasy.

Afterwards they bask in the afterglow, sprawled out on the couch, utterly debauched, the only sound in the room the rumbling explosions and swelling score from the long-forgotten movie playing out on the television. By the time the credits roll, Sherlock is so tired he feels his legs have turned turned to rubber. He begrudgingly allows John to coax him down the hall to the bathroom, where they brush their teeth side-by-side. Midway through, Sherlock catches John's eye in the mirror and John waggles his eyebrows deviously, causing Sherlock to snicker and spray flecks of toothpaste all over the mirror, which causes John to moan and complain that they REALLY need to clean the flat tomorrow, but Sherlock can't be arsed to argue. Then they collapse into bed, and Sherlock falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He's not entirely sure what time it is, but he wakes to the not-altogether unpleasant sensation of John's hardness pressed against his hip. He opens his eyes in the darkness to find John is awake as well, the light from the streetlamp outside the flat turning his eyes into orbs of brightness in the dark. 

"You awake?" John's voice is low and gravelly with sleep.

"Mmph. Yes?"

"Hmmm." There's a tone of mischief in John's voice that Sherlock dimly notes in his sleep-haze, but a moment later, his intentions become clear.

Sherlock had been sleeping face-down, and it only takes him a split second to register John's hand slipping beneath the waistband of his pajamas, fingers gently prodding his cheeks apart and coming to rest on the plug.

"Again, John? Are you serious?"

"You've no one to blame but yourself. You created this monster." He presses down lightly on the plug, and Sherlock's legs part fractionally as if on instinct. Sherlock lets out a light huff of distain.

"Well, have at it, if you must."

John's fingers pause from where they'd been circling the base of the plug, and he pulls away for a moment.

"Sherlock, if you're not into it, we don't have to. If you want to go back to sleep, it's alright. I'm just being greedy."

"I know, John. And quite frankly, it's a nice change-up, you being the greedy, demanding one for once." He can hear John's snort of amusement, light and fond. "I like it. And I'm more than willing to accommodate. You do no less for me on a regular basis." He spreads his legs further.

_"Oh."_ John's response is quiet and reverent, almost worshipful. He pulls himself up onto his knees and peels off Sherlock's pajama bottoms, then positions himself between his legs.

Sherlock continues to lie flat on his stomach, face nestled into the pillow. He senses John's desire for Sherlock to be a passive participant in this, to receive him willingly without rebuff, and Sherlock is happy to comply. Something about the act of lying prone while John hovers above him, unravelling in ways Sherlock is only beginning to understand, makes Sherlock feel powerful beyond measure.

John rucks up Sherlock's t-shirt and proceeds to press a series of wet, open-mouthed kisses across Sherlock's back and shoulders, pausing to lick the place where he'd bitten him during their earlier encounter on the sofa. Sherlock melts into the touch, the sensation of John's lips on the thick scar tissue that mars his back making him feel like he's floating, his sleep-hazed brain quieting to a steady hum of pleasure. 

John's fingers continue to circle the plug, applying light pressure at various intervals, until finally he pulls away. Gently, Sherlock can feel the plug slip out as John replaces it with his cock, and presses fully inside.

John begins to move, his thrusts gentle but deep, his breathing ragged and uneven in the stillness of the room. Sherlock remains motionless, legs spread, silent except for the occasional hum of affirmation that spurns John on as he takes his pleasure, unabashed.

Sherlock is aroused, but in a hazy, imprecise way that has little to do with his cock. His whole body feels lax and open and warm, as if every cell were glowing with utter contentment. The weight of John on top of him, inside him, is grounding and reassuring, and he feels awash in a surreal sense of peace. He feels safe in this moment. Safe here with John.

Above him, John speeds up, his moans turning to short, bitten-off gasps. Then there's a light cry, almost of surprise, and Sherlock feels the new heat of John's latest release filling him yet again. He remains pliant and still as John rides out the aftershocks.

John pulls out quickly, but the pressure is immediately replaced with the unyielding sensation of the plug as John slips it back in. Then he collapses back onto the bed beside Sherlock and pulls him into his arms, holding him tight against his chest.

"I love you. God, I love you so much. You're so perfect for me, Sherlock. What the hell did I ever do in this world to deserve you."

Sherlock doesn't know how to answer, so instead he raises his head and kisses John lightly, hoping that his lips will say everything he can't.

"How are you feeling?" John asks between the kisses he's pressing into Sherlock's hair. "Do you want to come? I could use my mouth, or my hands..."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, 'malright. Just sleepy now. Let's sleep."

"Okay, love. Goodnight."

They drift off, tangled up in one another.

It's early when Sherlock wakes again, their bedroom only beginning to fill with the rosy glow of dawn. But Sherlock rarely needs more than a few hours of sleep on any given night (provided he hasn't just finished a case), so it's not unusual for him to be up at this hour.

He pulls himself into a sitting position, freezing momentarily as his brain scrambles to identify the strange sensation in his posterior. Then he remembers--the plug. Memories of the night before wash over him, and he smiles warmly to himself as he shifts side to side, acclimating to the sensation. Still, there's no discomfort, just a light but steady pressure making him feel pleasantly full.

He gets to his feet and makes his way to the bathroom, treading carefully so as not to disturb the still-slumbering John. He relieves his bladder, then makes his way to the mirror, and the image that greets him stops him dead in his tracks.

A trail of aubergine hickeys has blossomed along the length of his neck, leading all the way down beneath the collar of his t-shirt. Breathless, he strips his t-shirt off to discover that they carry on down his chest and over his shoulders. Turning to glance at his back, he notes the place where John had bitten him last night is a deep blue shade, almost navy, fading to a dusky maroon near the edges.

Christ, it's _exquisite._

Sherlock adores it when John leaves marks on him. He usually only does it when they unwind, and John has very specific rules about it; he refuses to hit Sherlock under any circumstances (not that Sherlock disagrees on that point; the idea of that type of pain play doesn't turn him on, and considering the fact that he and John have had physical altercations in the past that were _not_ of a sexual nature, it's a sensitive subject for them both--a souvenir of darker times, before all of this, after which John swore he'd never raise a hand to Sherlock again). But Sherlock loves it when John peppers him with love bites, or when he ties the restraints _just_ this side of too tight so that Sherlock's delicate wrists bruise when he struggles against them, or when John gives him rugburn on his knees or back from a vigorous fuck on the sitting room rug.

And _God,_ this morning's markings are bloody gorgeous, and they hadn't even been unwinding last night! John seems to have simply lost himself in the throes of pleasure and thrown caution to the wind. Sherlock preens over the bruises in the mirror, pressing lightly against each one to feel the dull throb of pain beneath his fingertips. They'll be impossible to cover up (a sure sign that John wasn't paying attention; he's usually fastidious about keeping everything below the collar--or at least below the scarf-line, in extreme cases), and Sherlock smirks to himself as he pictures the look on John's face the next time they have to leave the flat. He wonders if it will be to meet with Lestrade, and he'll get to show off the marks at the Yard. Or God, wouldn't it be fantastic if it were Mycroft who had to see them? To see the evidence of Sherlock being so happily _adored, God,_ it would wipe that smug grin right off his fat face. John Watson could not control himself around Sherlock Holmes, and he had marked Sherlock as utterly and irretrievably _his,_ and Sherlock--

\--is really fucking hard. He acknowledges his arousal with a perfunctory glance at his erect cock, and then notes the way he clenches around the plug in anticipation.

He needs John Watson. Right the hell now.

He makes his way swiftly back to the bedroom as he strips himself stark naked, then burrows beneath the covers, sidling up to John until the lengths of their bodies are pressed together. Delightfully, John is still naked. John's back is to him, so he buries his face in the nape of John's neck and lets out an expectant huff.

"Mmmm. Christ, Sherlock, what time is it?"

"Inconsequential."

John groans. "Are you kidding me right now? This is the first morning in weeks that I've gotten to relax, and you're... _oh."_

Sherlock has pressed his erection against John's backside, and he nips playfully at the back of John's neck.

"Well, I was thinking we could do something other than relax, but really, if you need your rest, I'll leave you to it, I'll just be well on my way." He pulls away and sits up and almost makes it to the edge of the bed before John is tackling him, playfully pulling him back under the covers. They grapple lightheartedly, Sherlock swiftly letting John take the upper hand, until John wrests him onto his back and settles himself between his legs. They're both grinning like fools, and John's eyes are bright and eager, all signs of fatigue erased by the rush of arousal and adrenaline.

The next thing Sherlock knows, John is licking against his lips, and he opens his mouth to grant him access. John kisses him deeply and thoroughly, then slowly lowers his cock to meet Sherlock's.

Sherlock moans at the sensation of John's hardness against his. His eyelids flutter shut and he parts his legs further, latching his ankles at John's lower back and pulling him closer. They move like that for a while until they're both panting and desperate, the heat surrounding them almost stifling until John abruptly kneels up to toss the duvet off the bed.

"Jesus Christ!" John's face is an almost cartoonish mask of horror as he turns his gaze back to Sherlock.

"What? What?" Sherlock feels momentarily panicked, like perhaps he'd gotten a nosebleed like he used to back in primary school, earning him several less-than-complimentary nicknames and a crippling case of self-consciousness about the matter.

"Your neck! I really... Jesus."

"Oh. That. I don't mind, really. In fact, that's sort of why I'm here. I was admiring it in the bathroom, and, well..."

But John's not paying attention to him anymore. His gaze has traveled the length of Sherlock's torso and come to rest squarely between his legs.

"Are... are you still wearing it?" John sounds more than a bit breathless.

"Yes."

"...Oh. God, Sherlock, I forgot about it until just now..."

"Well, convenient for you, less of an option for me, what with it being up my arse and all."

"Well, sorry! You woke me up, my brain wasn't functioning, I haven't had caffeine!"

"Mmmm. Caffeine or no, the real question is" --he pulls his thighs up to his chest and tilts his hips up, exposing himself to John-- "are you going to do anything about it?"

"Oh God, yes."

John doesn't hesitate. With one hand, he grasps the underside of Sherlock's left thigh and presses it further back against his chest. With the other hand, he slowly traces his fingers around the base of the plug, his touch light and undemanding.

"Are you sore?"

"I'm not sure. A little, maybe? It feels different from... from anything else we've done."

"Mmmm." John's gaze is glazed, locked on Sherlock's arsehole. Sherlock is fairly certain he's not listening. He grasps the base of the plug and twists it slowly.

Sherlock gasps. "Maybe... lube. Might need more lube."

"Right! Right, sorry!" John seems to shake himself out of his stupor and grabs the lube off the nightstand. He quickly slicks his fingers and then brings them back down to trace Sherlock's rim, pressing down ever so slightly as he coats him.

Sherlock tries to remember how to breathe. He feels sensitive--yes, sore from their activities the night before, but also blissfully aroused by even this lightest of touches. 

Finally, John grasps the base of the plug and pulls it out without fanfare.

Sherlock audibly gasps at the shocking sensation of emptiness. It's just on the edge of feeling too raw--that delicious point of balance between intense arousal and discomfort. He feels open, exposed--it's intoxicating.

The searing look in John's eyes tells Sherlock that he's in it as deep as he is. His mouth is open and he's breathing heavily, staring at Sherlock's arse with rapt attention. Finally, he seems to summon the energy to string a few words together.

"Are you... can I... touch?"

"Yeah. Go ahead."

John's fingers find his rim and press carefully inside. It's agonizingly erotic, the feeling of John's digits against his sensitized skin, nerve receptors all but aflame with the new sensation. Sherlock gasps again, lungs refusing to drink their fill, and John lets out an audible "Oh."

Sherlock is suddenly strangely self-conscious about all this. He's not quite sure how to feel about the situation, and he aches for reassurance, but John is too far gone to notice. He summons up his courage to ask for himself. "Is it... good?"

John swallows heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing in a way that's almost hypnotic. He seems to be struggling to find the words. "You're... messy." He presses his fingers in again, harder this time. Sherlock shudders.

"Is it... what you wanted, John?"

"Yeah. This is... God, Sherlock, this is perfect. I'm..." he finally tears his eyes away from Sherlock's hole to meet his gaze. "Sherlock, this is... this is so good. I'm... a bit at a loss here."

"Alright, then." The tightness in Sherlock's chest seems to loosen ever so slightly. They're okay, everything is fine. This is just new, _intense,_ pushing their boundaries a bit-- he just needs to stay calm and communicate. That's what John always tells him, anyway. "Do you... do you want to have me?"

John presses his lips together and closes his eyes. His fingers twist ever so slightly where they'd come to rest deep inside him. He doesn't answer for a time, and Sherlock feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest as he watches John for any sign of affirmation.

Finally, John's eyes open. Once again, they're fixated on Sherlock's arse. He withdraws his fingers slightly, and let's out a long, slow breath.

"I... Sherlock, I'm... I'm pretty far gone right now. I want you--if you can handle it. But I don't want to hurt you, and I don't trust myself to set the proper boundaries right now to make sure that I don't."

"It's alright, John. I'll make sure. You can trust me. I promise I'll let you know if I want to stop."

John's eyes find Sherlock's. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure, John. Go on. I want this for you."

Slowly, as if in a dream, John withdraws his fingers, then lines up his cock. He doesn't add any more lube; the remnants of their three encounters the night before have left Sherlock feeling more than prepared enough. Heaving another shaky breath, John slides fully inside.

Sherlock gasps with the feeling of sudden, overwhelming fullness. Above him, John lets out a sound that reminds Sherlock of a wounded animal. John's eyes are screwed shut, and his neck and shoulders are coiled tight as he holds himself stiffly in place.

Neither of them move. Finally, the tension begins to slowly drain out of John, and he opens his eyes to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock wants to say something, wants to reassure him, but all he can do is nod.

With that, John grips the headboard with one hand and braces the other beside Sherlock's head, and begins to thrust. His rhythm is sharp and demanding, pulling no punches despite their vigorous activities the previous night. Sherlock's channel feels hot and almost uncomfortably wet, and he grits his teeth against the throbbing pain of overuse. He wills himself to relax, to breathe, to be here in this moment for John-- _with_ John.

John stops abruptly and pulls his weight up to his knees, then wraps his hands around Sherlock's waist and heaves him bodily back onto his lap, so that John is sitting back on his heels and thrusting up into Sherlock's prone form. Sherlock can immediately see the benefit of this position for John; it allows him an unobstructed view of his cock plundering Sherlock, and Sherlock feels suddenly shy, imagining how wanton and well-used he must appear in this moment. His hands twist in the sheets and he stifles a cry. He's on the brink of telling John to _stop_ to _pull out_ it's _too much,_ he _just can't._

But then... then he looks at John's face. And what he sees takes his breath away.

John is staring down at him with a look of reverent awe. There's no self-consciousness lining his face, no hint of the well-mannered army doctor who abides by the rules, no sign of the uptight blogger who makes sure the rent is paid on time and that they practice social niceties. It's just _John,_ stripped and at his most basic, primal self, exposed and vulnerable, baring himself for Sherlock. And he is utterly fucking beautiful.

A wave of arousal washes over Sherlock that is so strong he bows off the bed with the magnitude of it. Sherlock's hand finds its way to his own cock and he begins to stroke himself in time with John's thrusts, and he spreads his legs wider still, letting John press deeper inside him. John howls and tightens his hands around Sherlock's waist.

Then John is coming again, crying out so loudly that Sherlock is frankly almost scandalized--which is saying something, coming from him. But John is unabashed as he rides through it, pumping into Sherlock with vigorous enthusiasm and (perhaps a bit surprisingly,) a final, triumphant cry of, _"Mine."_

Sherlock jerks himself and clenches as tightly as he can around John's cock. He was unsure he'd be able to form sentences at this point, but he hears words spilling from his mouth: "Yes, John, yours. All yours."

Finally, the tremors subside, and John is still. Sherlock ceases stroking himself and waits to see what John will do. His head is lolling loosely on his neck and his chest is rising and falling in sharp, staccato gasps, but eventually, he seems to come to.

He blinks blearily down at Sherlock as though he's seeing him for the first time. Sherlock stares up at him. He has no idea what to say.

Then John shifts and shuffles backwards on his knees, slowly pulling out. Sherlock utters a soft cry as he does so, then feels his face flush with absolute mortification when he realizes just how _wet_ he is. He's leaking obscenely, he can _feel_ it, feel the way he's still open even without the aid of the plug, God, it's--

"Beautiful. Christ, Sherlock, you're so gorgeous, this is..." John shakes his head, clearly at a loss for words. Then slowly, gracefully, he bends to take Sherlock's cock deep into his mouth.

Sherlock cries out with unabashed pleasure as John takes him apart with his clever lips and tongue, providing just the right amount of suction to make Sherlock's toes curl and his hands fly to John's hair to hold him there. 

He's faintly aware that John is tracing his fingers lightly through the mess between Sherlock's cheeks, fingertips just brushing the surface of his hole and gliding through the leaking evidence of John's multiple releases--but it's all secondary to the absolute sorcery John's mouth is performing on his cock. Hell, John could do whatever he wanted back there, provided _he doesn't stop sucking..._

With a final swirl of John's tongue, Sherlock comes with a shout, John easing him through it with strong, steady pulls, swallowing down Sherlock's release without hesitation. Finally, he pulls away just before Sherlock reaches the point of oversensitivity, and then flops down to lay beside him.

They stay like that for a while, staring at the ceiling, watching as the morning light changes from pink to a clear, bright golden. Suddenly, the silence is broken by the sound of John... giggling.

Sherlock turns to look at him. "What's so funny?"

John just giggles harder, shaking his head, and Sherlock can't help but grin back--John's laughter is dangerously contagious. Finally, John gets ahold of himself.

"I just... this. Life. It's funny."

"Funny how?"

John turns to rest on his side, and Sherlock mirrors him. John takes Sherlock's hands in his and presses a kiss against them.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but... funny that I'm here. With you. Of all of the lives I ever pictured for myself, one like this... was never one of them."

"You mean... with a man? Being gay?"

John hesitates. Sherlock knows John still grapples privately with his sexuality so he tries not to push it, but sometimes, in moments like this, it hurts a bit. Though Sherlock knows John isn't rejecting _him,_ it can be difficult to observe the way he struggles over it.

But then John shakes his head. "I mean... being with someone _like_ you. Not just that you're a man. Someone who sees me-- all of me-- and just... accepts it, carte blanche. Someone that I don't have to have any secrets from. Not that I could hide anything from you if I tried, but still." Sherlock gives him a good-natured shove, but then John's eyes lock into his and they freeze, the moment suddenly serious. "You see all of me and I don't have to be ashamed."

It's so strangely tender that it takes Sherlock completely off-guard. He hasn't spent much time reflecting on how difficult their journey has been for John; after all, he's had a lot of growing to do himself. But now John has laid it bare at his feet, and Sherlock feels profoundly touched.

But Sherlock is rubbish with emotions. Rubbish with heartfelt soliloquies. There are a thousand things he wants to say--about the way he feels, about the things John does to him, about the places John takes him that he never knew existed... But he hasn't got the words.

So he simply says, "I feel the same."

And thankfully, it's enough. John smiles at him, that warm, glowing smile that lights up the room, and Sherlock grins back and they kiss, soft and tender, and let the peaceful stillness of the morning surround them.

In the end, it's a text from Lestrade that finally pulls them from bed. A double homicide in Islington requires their urgent attention. John makes arrangements for Rosie to stay with Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock makes them strong cups of tea, then they shower and dress in companionable silence until Lestrade texts with the address. 

Sherlock wears his purple shirt--the one that always drives John wild. He leaves the collar unbuttoned, and notes how beautifully the hue sets off the marks across his throat.

Finally, the taxi rings, and they grab their coats to go.

"No scarf?" asks John.

Sherlock shakes his head. "It's unseasonably warm."

"Right you are."

And they're off.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking requests for this series! Anything you want to see these crazy kids get up to? Hit me up.


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